Poems - Moumita Mitra

Fevered

My limbs are dead They suck honey from the bees And jump into the moving pain like fever

My limbs ache to death Yet then here's this small glass From which a sound emits like Distrust.

I've been through it Heaving as a dead man's chest 'd ---- There's no way back; Words vomit as though They are Blood, Mud and Earth. Rain drenches you to destitution. And then there's sleep --- long, Alcoholic, numb like a dream. I walk through. I'll walk through. And the muddy silence 'll be all over.

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